


On the Run

by Carathay



Series: No One Takes Down Hit Girl but Hit Girl [2]
Category: Kick-Ass (Movies)
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Prostitution, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 14:00:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6197830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carathay/pseuds/Carathay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mindy has left town following the events of Kick Ass 2.  Her head isn't in a great place.  Having spent all of her life in a world of comics and action movies, she really isn't ready to face the reality of living all on her own.  This story is a prequel for 'No One Takes down Hit Girl but Hit Girl' and is intended to be read after that work.  It works on it's own as well but there will be some mild spoilers for the other story and there are some references that won't be as effective without it.  This story is written from the viewpoint that Mindy is talking to the reader/viewer.  And also making fun of them, swearing at them, and anything else she can think of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You didn't really think I was done with this, did you?

Really, before I can tell you about being with someone, I need to tell you about being alone. And this is still about me fucking up my own life. Honestly, I'm amazing good at it. I should teach a class or something.

Fucking up for Dummies?

Anyway, I'd told you a little bit about what happened to me during my time away from New York City and before I got shot in the head. I think it's time to tell you the entire story. Maybe if I do you'll realize that there was a reason that I was such a pussy when I came back to town.

Anyway, let's go back to when I left town following the warehouse battle with The Motherfucker.

The wind plastered my jacket to my body as I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. My lips were still tingling. My first kiss had been an unqualified success. There had been no nose bumps or unnecessary slobbering. It had been nice and clean. And I'd gotten to enjoy it without having Dave still wrapped around me and trying to decide if a first kiss would turn into first base… Or second base… And I really don't think I'm ready for any of that.

What the fuck is up with the 'base' system anyway? Only one part of me is kind of shaped like home plate….

I hope you enjoyed that image because I certainly did. But regardless, the kiss was done and the only excitement that I had left was beautiful sunshine and my Ducati throbbing between my legs.

That's my motorcycle, dumb ass. Not a fucking vibrator or some shit.

I was getting close to the end of the bridge, so I down shifted the bike and merged into regular traffic. I had a fake ID that matched the registered name on the bike so I figured that I should be clear. Why take chances though? Speeding could get me stopped by someone who recognized me. They might even know Marcus. Actually, I'm not sure if the cop knowing who I was or knowing Marcus would help or hurt me in that circumstance. Many of the cops appreciated what I'd done for the city but the kind of person that becomes a good cop still wasn't going to let a murderer off with a warning. And I couldn't really argue with someone trying to be a good cop. But a bad cop might push me into oncoming traffic and then see if there were any D'Amico's left to collect a bounty from. New York wasn't safe. Well, New York City anyway. I had to get out of the city but I wasn't sure how far I was willing to go. I mean, as bullshit as it sounds, this was my first time leaving the city. It felt like giving up who I was.

A couple of hours on Interstate 80 east got me to Birmingham. Food was beginning to become a priority. I pulled off of the highway and looked for something decent but not too noteworthy. After considering all of the fast food placed, I finally decided that Denny's was probably the best option to be able to sit on something that wasn't moving for a while and eat real food. Well, real pre-prepared food anyway. Patrolling had meant eating at all hours so I was familiar with the place and I hoped it would help me calm down a bit. I walked in and waved at a server. Then a waitress named 'Bunny' chimed out "Table for 1" so loud that I think the people in the bathrooms heard her. She led me back and gave me a menu. I suppose it's some sort of fucked up job requirement to for them to point out to all the other diners that I was alone. To increase the insult, she took the other chair away from the table and put it at another one. Now I couldn't even pretend I was waiting for someone else. This was going to really impact her tip.

I felt very conspicuous and out of place. That was new. I'd never really given a shit what anyone else thought before in this kind of situation. I mean, usually I was enough company for myself. But today had been the day for a whole bunch of firsts, I guess. The kiss had been a great start but every new thing after that had been crap. I randomly picked something from the breakfast menu since it was on the first page and I couldn't stand sitting there any longer than I had to.

After what was an absurd amount of time to wait for this kind of crappy food, I got what looked like a very rubbery omelet. A brief taste proved that you can indeed judge an omelet by the pool of grease it's sitting in. I was starting to run out of steam and it wasn't even worth the effort to complain. I managed to eat enough so that I wouldn't be too hungry for the rest of my ride and left.

I still tipped 20%. Guilt and the knowledge that I could never handle being a waitress forced me to do it. Besides, I had the money.

Outside, I gassed up the bike and headed back out onto the highway. Traffic wasn't too busy so I went ahead and cranked up some tunes to keep me going. Avril Lavigne kept me company for the next four hours until I reached Buffalo. She had a lot of wonderful songs about being powerful and controlling your life. And an equal number of them about losing or missing someone that you love. The mix kind of left me in a fucked up mood. I should probably be a little more careful about building a playlist for a long lonely drive. It's kind of weird, but the more depressed I got, the more joy I took in making myself more miserable.

Over time, you're going to find that I'm really, really good at that. And if you've never been in that mindset, that won't make any sense to you. But if you have, then well, I'm sorry that both of us have to suffer through it.

Bright city lights greeted me again as I got closer to Buffalo. It was getting late and I was pretty wiped out. So, I figured I'd get a decent hotel room and a good night's sleep. Everything would be better in the morning, right?

Right?

I really wish you could fucking reply right now. Even if you laughed at me. I'd feel a LOT less lonely.

I cruised down the strip of motels that were right off the highway. And I went through the same conversation at four different places.

Me: "Hi, I'd like a room please."

Them: "Sure. Go ahead and fill this out. I'll need a major credit card to put on file."

Me: "Could I pay with cash?"

Them: "Not a problem."

Me: "Great!"

Them: "We'll still need a card to put on file though."

Me: "Oh. Umm.. Could I just pay in advance? Or maybe something give you something like a security deposit? I've got plenty of money."

Them: "Sorry, we require a major credit card to rent a room."

Me: "What if I offered you $10,000 in cash?"

Ok, I didn't actually say the last part because I didn't want to call attention to myself. And really, that was the entire problem. I did have a couple of credit cards that I used for online purchases and shit. But one was a reloadable card that you pick up at, like, a 7-11 and the other was in my legal name. It just hadn't ever seemed necessary to go through the extra hoops to get a card in my fake name. The reloadable card didn't work for being 'put on file' since it didn't have a name on it. And my one card that had 'Mindy Macready' on it wasn't an option either. I was getting really fucking tired but I wasn't tired enough to risk them running that card through the system. I'd probably wake up to a SWAT team peeking in my window.

I wonder if any hotels take Paypal…. The jetpack company took it...

Fuck it. What I really needed was some god damn sleep. It was time to lower my standards. So I picked up some dinner (I wasn't going to repeat the 'table for one' embarrassment again) and then stopped at the biggest dive of a hotel that I could find. Jackpot. They took cash alright but it was so skeezy that I was surprised that it didn't rent by the hour. Or that they didn't hand me my sheets when they gave me the key. But it was a room and a bed. That was all I needed.

I keyed open the room. It smelled like cigarettes and something I couldn't quite identify and probably didn't want to. Still, it was someplace to be and I'd already paid for it. I locked the door behind me and then wedged one of the chairs in the room under the handle. I mean, if some fuckhead with a passkey decided to break in, I figured I could take him out pretty easily. But I really just wasn't in the mood. The place looked like it hadn't been renovated since it was built. Sad not quite stained carpets and linens. A lumpy looking double bed. A tiny little table. Oh my god this sucked.

I sat down at the table to eat. I figured it had to be better than lunch. I mean, there at least wasn't anyone to stare at me. I figured wrong. To my surprise, sitting in a room of strangers wondering if someone was staring at me turned out to be more pleasant than sitting completely by myself in a piece of shit hotel room. Shit. Maybe I should take the chair out from under the doorknob. If some cocksucker decided to break in, at least they could keep me company for a while. I picked at dinner for a while then tossed it in the trash. Time to just give up and sleep.

I eyed the bed warily. I was pretty sure it was a good thing that I didn't have one of those black lights like in CSI. The room would probably light up like a rave. That would probably leave me feeling sicker than I already did. Trying not to think about how gross it was, I dragged the comforter off of the bed because I'd read that those almost never got washed and most people looking for a quicky probably didn't bother to pull the covers down. I wanted to take some of my clothes off so that I could sleep a bit more comfortably. But the thought of my bare skin touching those sheets was more than I could handle. I went and used the bathroom, which was disgusting. I tried to hover but fell and landed on a fuck ton of bruises that I had left from fighting Mother Russia. Add to that touching a toilet that just screamed 'Hepatitis' and I'm not entirely sure this day could get any worse.

Oh, if you're a guy and don't understand what the hover thing means, ask any girl. Trust me, we all know.

I wanted to brush my teeth but I hadn't been smart enough to pack a toothbrush. And like everything else after I'd left New York City, it wasn't worth the trouble to fix. I shut off the lights. I wish I could claim that there was a neon sign blinking outside of my window to complete this stereotypical shitty motel room but I didn't even have a window. It was pitch black. I went back to the bed and curled into a ball, trying to touch as little as possible. I covered up with my jacket. And then I lay alone in the dark, running my tongue over my fuzzy feeling teeth and not able to relax because I didn't have that satisfying mint flavor tingling on my taste buds. Everything in my life was different now.

I guess I eventually fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

I guess I eventually fell asleep because I did eventually wake up. Not that I was all that happy about it, but, hey, I guess I wasn't dead. That's a good thing, right?

I packed up my stuff, not that I had a lot to pack, and headed out. I'd rented the room for a couple of weeks so that I'd have some sort of base camp but there were limits to what I was willing to put up with. I was coming back, but I needed to make a few improvements first. I headed out to the local home store and bought sheets, pillows, and a really soft blanket. I also bought a plastic mattress cover so my stuff wouldn't touch the actual mattress. And no, the new bedding wasn't in purple.

I'm just fucking with you. Seriously, how could I NOT get purple? My life was shit. The least I could do was to get happy colored sheets.

I looked like a supreme dumb ass riding my bike with big puffy shopping bags attached to my back. Clearly I was going to have to come up with a better plan if I didn't want to buy all new shit every time that I moved someplace new. I mean, there's having plenty of money and then there's being wasteful. but it was that or give up my Ducati. And there wasn't a chance in hell I was giving up that bike. It was the only part of home that I had left. I made a second trip and picked up a backpack, some changes of clothes, shampoo that wasn't in a baby bottle, etc. Basically all the things I'd need to really settled in. I also bought some paper and colored pencils to amuse myself with. A third trip included cleaning supplies and the fourth got me food.

Soon enough the room was clean. I was lying on my new sheets, snacking on those cheese and peanut butter crackers, and finishing my 'Shithole, sweet Shithole' sign to put above my bed when there was a knock at the door. I ignored it. They knocked again. I ignored it again. One more knock sounded and I heard a female voice say 'Please let me in' between the thuds. The voice sounded young, but who am I to judge young? And there was a peculiar amount of desperation and hopelessness in that 'Please'. It kind of echoed through my own soul. So I pulled my ass of the bed, went over to the door, made sure the three additional chain latches that I'd purchased and installed were secure, and then inched open the door.

I was greeted by the site of a girl around the same age as me. Small crop top. Tiny skirt. No coat. Just a tiny clutch that I strongly suspected was full of condoms. She was probably a hooker. Not feeling all that original, I went with the basics. "What do you want?"

She seemed a little surprised to see a girl in the room but she recovered quickly. "Umm, want to have a good time? I'm, umm, really good!"

"Sorry, I don't swing that way. Have a nice night." I responded and tried to shut the door. Before I could, she'd wedged her foot in between the door and the jam. I was kind of surprised. I'd put rather short chains on the door but she had a really tiny foot so I guess that helped.

"Do you have a friend? Maybe I could give him a treat or something?"

"Sorry, no thanks." I said.

I saw the look in her eyes changing from seductive to desperate. "I could, like, clean the room for you or something? I mean, it's not like this place has maid service. Or run some errands?"

"Already did all of that, sorry." I was really starting to feel bad for this girl. If she was just a salesperson or something, I'd just tell her to try another room. But given her obvious profession, that didn't seem like the right thing to do. I noticed her peering past me and then her eyes lit up when she saw the crackers I had on the bed. Oh shit. Guilt began to gnaw at me.

"You're a hooker, right?" I asked bluntly. Shamefacedly, she nodded. I thought of a way I could help her. "Do you have a pimp? I could kick the shit out of him for you?"

She wrenched her gaze away from the food and started staring at her shoes. "No, I, umm, don't have a pimp. Just trying to survive in the world, that's all. Look, if you're not buying, I should probably go find someone who will. I'm kinda hungry." There was more than a bit of a hint in that last sentence, evidenced by the fact that she made no effort to pull her foot out of the crack in the door.

Damn it. No pimp to beat up. Things were still going great as always. "Are you on drugs?" I asked.

"No, I'm not on drugs. What I am is hungry. Look, I'll tell you anything you want if you'll let me in and give me something to eat, OK? This hallway is getting cold."

Ah, what the fuck. Might as well live a little. I went ahead and let her in. She weighed maybe 85 lbs soaking wet and she didn't have anyplace to hide a decent weapon so it was safe. I did check her 'purse' to make sure she didn't have some date rape drug that she could drop in my soda when I wasn't looking. Two condoms, a lipstick, and thirty eight cents. At least she was a safety girl. She said her name was Emily. I told her mine was Mina.

I gave her a couple of packages of the crackers I'd been eating. When those disappeared faster than I'd have believed possible, I also gave her a couple protein bars that I'd been intending to have for breakfast.

"Slow down, OK? I don't want you throwing all of that back up. It isn't going anywhere." I said, trying to stifle a laugh.

"Sorry." She said down and started taking smaller bites. "I was raised better than that. I'm just really hungry. I haven't eaten much in the last couple of days. No customers. I think it's between paydays."

I'd never thought of prostitution as something tied to when paydays were, but the type of person who would pay money for sex probably isn't that good at impulse control. They probably blow through most of their money and then try to survive until the next one. Well, I guess I should say that the girls 'blow through it.' Am I right?

Hey, I can be funny!

The girl finished eating and looked at me. "I needed that. Look, I'm no charity case. There's got to be something I can do to pay you back." She looked at me and the bed expectantly which made me feel very uncomfortable. I quickly moved and put one of the chairs in the room between us.

"It's OK. My money comes from people who don't need it anymore. Helping you is a good use for it." I replied.

"You don't scam people, do you?" I could hear the disapproval in her voice.

"Not at all. It's… complicated." Shit. I couldn't believe how much I wanted to open up to this girl. But, secret identities are secret for a reason. To change the subject I asked "What did you mean you were raised better? And why are you doing whatever it is that you're doing?" I'm not normally one to mince words but I didn't want to insult her at this point. It was nice to have someone to talk to.

"Hooking? Fucking for money? Is that what you mean?" she asked. "Well, I promised to tell you so I will. I started off like I'm sure you did. Happy mom and dad who loved me, just like you, right?"

I decided not to correct her that 'happy' had never really described either one of my parents. Sure Daddy had had good moments, but he was always so driven toward the mission that he didn't let himself enjoy them. And Mom, well, thanks to the D'Amico's I never got to even meet her. I nodded so she would continue.

"Well, anyway, I had it all. Then Dad got sick fast. Really sick. Cancer. And overnight it was like I didn't even matter anymore. Dad was in so much pain that he was doped to the gills almost constantly and couldn't even remember my name. He tried but there wasn't much he could do for me. Mom spent every waking moment with him. I was only thirteen and suddenly I was cooking my own meals and doing my own laundry. We had moved across the country for Dad's new job just a week before so I didn't have any friends yet. And both sets of grandparents were already dead so it was really just us. I spent hours at home alone because the hospital didn't allow kids to spend that much time visiting. When I did get to go in, I could tell that my mom didn't want me there. At first I was OK with it. We knew that the writing was on the wall and that he didn't have much time left. I thought my mom didn't want me to see him that sick, hooked up to tubes and machines and to remember him the way he was before. That's what the grief counselor at the hospital told me when I didn't manage to avoid him. He tried to get my mother to spend some time with me and to let me go through things with her. Mom barely acknowledged his presence. He tried to get my mom see him too, maybe get on some anti-depressants or something because she'd gone seriously wacky even for a woman watching the love of her life die. But she refused and he couldn't force her."

I sat there in shock at the terrible tale she was telling me. I suppose it could have been a sob story to get my sympathy but it didn't feel like that. I think she'd have been more teary-eyed if she'd been making it up. She acted more like someone who'd made it through a war.

She kept going, like she'd never gotten to tell anyone about it before and needed to purge it from her system. "Anyway, dad got sicker and slipped into a coma. And she kept ignoring me. Child Protective Services got involved at that point since the neglect was obvious and she paid attention to me for a little while. I was ecstatic. I thought maybe we could share our grief or something because I was losing someone I loved too. But after a couple of days it became clear that she was just doing enough so that CPS couldn't take me away. She still no longer gave a shit about me. And then he died."

Emily started to cry a little and I ran to the bathroom to grab her some tissue. After a few minutes she just tamped down the hurt and loss just like I did when I thought about Daddy. Then she continued.

"I got to go to the funeral. It was just mom, me, and a couple of people from Dad's work. The grief counselor had given up on us long ago and didn't even show. The priest tried to comfort us. Talked about Dad going to a better place and this being part of God's plan. Mom went mental at that point and told him that he could take God and his plan and shove it up his ass. Started screaming about how she and Dad were supposed to have lived their lives together. They were supposed to travel the world and do all kinds of stuff. She just kept going on and on and it was pretty clear that none of these supposed plans had involved me. I was hoping that it was just her anger, or bargaining, or whatever grief step she was supposed to be on. But her last statement put the lid on that coffin." She chuckled weakly. "That was kind of a stupid phrase. Accurate though."

"What did she say?" I asked. Shit. This story was better than Degrassi. Or worse. Maybe that's a better way to say it. I think you know what I mean.

"She screamed 'And then I got pregnant and it ruined everything!' That's what she said like I wasn't even there. She wasn't just angry at the cancer for taking Dad. She was mad at me for taking away some life she thought she'd have with him. And I realized that while I may have lost a Dad who loved me, I hadn't lost a Mom who loved me because she never had. At least, I hope he actually loved me…." She trailed off for a minute.

"We drove home after the ceremony in silence. When we got home and she just sat and stared at me. Her glare was so full of hate that I finally went to my room and packed a bag. I walked into the living room with it held clearly in front of me. I figured it would get her attention. I mean, that's what we do, right? As teenagers? Overdramatic gestures to get our parent's attention?"

I never had but I nodded anyway because I really wanted to know what happened next.

"Mom just smiled. Which was weird because I hadn't seen her smile in weeks. And then she motioned me toward the door. The meaning was pretty clear so I left. But I figured she was making some sort of statement. So I just sat on the porch waiting for her to come and open the door and welcome me back in. Or yell at me. Or something. She didn't. I was feeling stubborn so I didn't try to go back in either and eventually fell asleep leaning against the door. I woke up about 2 AM when I heard the garage door opening. I pulled myself to my feet and rushed toward it. Maybe she was going out to look for me and just hadn't thought to check the porch. But the car was so packed with stuff that she almost ran me over. I don't think it was on purpose. There was no way she could have even seen me. But she backed the car out and pulled into the street. I heard the garage door closing and before I knew it, she was gone."

"Holy shit!" I didn't manage to say anything more original than that. "Did she come back?"

"Nope. Waited around for two days before I gave up. Cried a lot but there's a limit to how much you can cry. I thought about going to the police or something but I was afraid they'd find her and put me back with her. I ended up on the streets. I was broke so I tried begging. It felt like shit even if someone gave me something. I couldn't do it too much anyway because then the police really would have grabbed me. But I managed to survive on my own for about a year. Then I got raped."

The hand I was resting on the chair tensed. I twisted my wrist and the armrest snapped. Emily's eyes opened wide and she shrank back like she was afraid I was going to hurt her. I quickly told myself to calm down and put the piece of wood on the little table. "Sorry. That came off really easy. Probably cracked or something."

Emily spoke up. "I know that look. You've been raped too, haven't you?"

"No! I mean, I've never even…" What the fuck was I telling this girl? I blushed.

Emily smiled. "You're still cherry?"

Brook's stupid fucking song came into my mind. It felt like my face was on fire. I couldn't speak.

She continued. "You've never even kissed a boy, have you!"

I wasn't going to take that accusation again. I mean, it obviously wasn't meant to be cruel like Brook and the bitches had been, but damn it, it wasn't even true now! I had kissed Dave yesterday! Yes! I pulled myself together. "No, I've kissed one!"

"Just one?"

I let my flaming face fall. "Yeah. Just one." After a long silence I went ahead and added one more detail "Yesterday." Oh great. Now the prostitute is going to mock me for my lack of experience.

"You're so lucky!"

"I'm what?" I looked back up.

"Lucky. If I could go back like that, I'd do it in a heartbeat. But look, I got raped. Which was just as terrible as you might imagine. But I've had tougher things in life. What my mother did was worse than the rape. Rape is all about betrayal, violation, and control. Powerlessness. I've had that in spades. It's not about sex."

"So how did you handle it?" I really was curious.

"Handle it? I didn't really have much of a choice other than to pick myself up and get on with life. So I did. And since I wasn't a virgin anymore and the cat was pretty much out of the bag, I decided to try having sex on my terms. I eventually found out that I liked sex a lot. Then one night a guy said I was so good I should charge and I figured, why the hell not? At least I worked for the money that otherwise I was otherwise begging for. When I get a little older and manage to get some ID, I'll try getting a real job. But until then, my life's pretty fucked up and I had to find a way to survive. But business has been pretty slow lately so here I am."

"Do you know where the guy who raped you is? I'm pretty good at making guys never rape again." That was as careful as I could manage to say what I did.

"I don't. That was a couple of cities ago and I think he got knifed by a drug dealer so he's probably facing whatever higher justice there is. So? Is that the most messed up life story you've ever heard?"

I sat there and thought about it. My life wasn't as bad as hers but it certainly wasn't good. Then I figured what the fuck. I'm all over the news anyway. So I told her my life story. With a bit of editing so that what I said couldn't be taken as a confession in court or something. But I didn't really hide anything. I came clean.

She stared at me. "You're Hit Girl? Seriously Hit Girl?"

I reached over to one of my bags and pulled out my wig. I managed to get it on so it wasn't too crooked.

"Gangsters, Mom dead, Dad dead, partner's dad dead, killed a ton of bad guys and now on the run?"

I grimaced. "Pretty much."

"Too bad that douche bag who raped me is dead. I'd have loved to have seen his face when you came out of the shadows." She sounded wistful. "Well, shit. I mean, my life has been bad, but… I'm not really sure which one of us wins."

I looked at her, realizing that sometimes you find friends in some really unlikely places. "I don't think either one of us has won. Maybe we can work on changing that together."

/Author's additional note: I personally believe that rape is as significant a crime as murder. A complete violation and destruction of a person's well being and dignity. While Emily has to a certain degree dismissed its importance, that should be interpreted as her way of dealing with it instead of diminishing how horrid I feel it is. And for the record, I am also of the belief that a person who has been raped still is a virgin, in that sex and rape have nothing to do with one another.


	3. Chapter 3

Emily and I talked until around 2 AM. Eventually we were both yawning more than speaking.

"I should go. I need to find somewhere to crash." Another huge yawn split her face before she could say anymore.

"Oh fuck that. You can stay here." I looked at the bed which was only a double. "I mean, we're both little. We'll fit."

She looked a little surprised. "You mean you want to…"

I cut her off. "No. Not that. Definitely not that. Just sleep." I blushed.

"I don't want to be a burden. I mean, I can take care of myself." She got up to go. Shit. Stupid fucking pride always gets in the way. That was something I understood. Then I had an idea.

"How about if I paid you to keep me company?"

"Seriously? I mean, guys say that all the time but they still just want to fuck me. And you're pretty hot. It could be fun." She tried to leer at me but the sleepiness in her eyes ruined it.

"Thanks, I think. Look, I don't want to fuck you. I don't want to fuck anybody, alright? I… I just don't want to be alone."

"Hit Girl is afraid of being alone!" she teased.

"I'm not afraid of shit!" I blurted. She just stared at me with a 'that's bullshit' expression. "OK, I'm not afraid exactly, but I don't really want to be alone. Plus I haven't had any fun in a long time and this was a blast. I'd like that to keep going."

"I could make it more fun." She said. And put her hands to her waist as to pull off her top.

"Stop that!" I stammered.

"Fine, fine. You're not into girls. But, I could, like, eat you out and you could pretend I'm that guy you kissed? You said he had longish curly hair so mine is like his. You don't even have to touch me."

"NO!" My face was beet red.

"How about if I just help you practice kissing?"

I managed something resembling a strangling noise.

"Oh all right. It could be a LOT of fun though. And if you change your mind, please, please, please let me know. You are SO fuckable." I had lost the ability to even make the noise. She finally gave in and changed her tone. "So you want me to just keep you company? For how long?" Her voice had gone all business like.

"I don't know. Tomorrow? A few days? A few weeks? Depends on how long I stay around here."

"OK. Can't charge much for that…. I'd be willing to just take food and a place to sleep? If that's not too much?" She said.

"Oh bullshit. I'm giving you money."

"Seems like a strange thing to pay for. Hmm - no sex so I can't charge for that… Does $10 a day sound fair?" She said, sounding like she was afraid she'd overpriced herself.

Holy fuck. This girl really didn't want to take a handout. "$200 a day." I countered.

"What? That's insane?" she gasped. "I couldn't take that. How about $20?"

"$300!" I countered.

"That's even more nuts! I'll go as high as $25."

"$400!" I shouted. This was getting fun.

"You really don't know how to negotiate, do you?" She said, laughing.

"Neither do you!"

"You're mental!"

"Yeah, I guess I am." I grinned.

Somehow that made her defensive. "Hey, I'm not taking fucking charity, OK?"

"Not fucking OK! And you can stick your pride up your ass. Look, I have plenty of money. And it's from fucked up scumbags like the douche bag who raped you. He owes you; fuck it, the whole goddamn world owes you. And, shit. Lots of people all over the world are paid more to do less."

"You seriously want to pay me that kind of money?" I nodded. After a very long moment, she just looked down at her feet. "You can't. I'm not worth it."

I pulled her chin up. "I can. And I'll kick your ass if you say that again. Got it?" I suppose I could have said that better, but what am I? A fucking psychologist? Finally, she nodded in agreement so I let the argument go. "I'm tired. Let's get some sleep and we can fight about it more in the morning."

We changed clothes – SEPARATELY! - And then crawled into bed. After a few minutes of silence, she said. "I'll take $50."

"You'll take more than that. But we'll fight about it tomorrow." I mumbled, starting to fall asleep. "Incidentally, you should know, I never lose a fight."

"And I lose pretty much all of them." I heard her mutter before sleep claimed me.


	4. Chapter 4

Morning came and went. Breakfast was eaten, and lunch quickly disappeared as well. Holy shit could that girl put away food! Then we went shopping and blew a bundle.

A bundle of money, I mean. We didn't blow anything else!

Or anyone!

Fuck.

By unspoken agreement, we didn't break the peace by directly discussing money. But she did let me pay for everything so I couldn't really complain. After it became clear that I wasn't treating her like some charity case and that I genuinely wanted to share what I had, she broke down and started asking for things. It started with the practical. New underwear was the first. She'd been embarrassed this morning to admit that she didn't have any when I'd gone into the bathroom this morning and found her sitting on the counter commando. Which was not something I wanted to see before my morning caffeine. Apparently some guys liked to rip them off of her and some just wanted to keep them. And, like sniff them or something. I mean, I know that guys are really kind of fucked up, but that didn't make any fucking sense and kind of gave me the wiggins. I decided not to ask for any other details and told her to pick out whatever she needed. She decided to stock up and bought a bunch. Both lace and practical, and all thongs, which looked extremely uncomfortable. Then some other outfits, some showing a lot more skin than I'd ever have dared, some normal. She got two pairs of shoes. One pair of sneakers for normal wear and a new pair of, as she put it so delicately, 'fuck me' pumps. Which for those of you not into girly shoes, are really tall spiky high heels. She had me try on a pair as well. I understood the name; they really pushed your boobs and your ass out. And for those of you who were curious, I didn't totter along trying to balance in them the first time I stood up. I'm Hit Girl, for fuck's sake. I do NOT have balance problems.

I didn't buy the pumps though. They just felt… wrong. Or at least, not me.

In the pharmacy section, I pretended not to notice when she negligently tossed a huge multi-pack of condoms into the cart. And that was really fricking tough to ignore because it was an obnoxious box with all of these strange words on it like 'lubricated', 'ribbed' and 'sensitive for her.' Again, I didn't want to know and so I didn't ask her any questions.

When she seemed sufficiently distracted by a display of cute jackets, I snuck over to the sporting goods section and started looking at guns. I managed to get one without a background check. It's amazing how effective pretending a couple of $1000 bills were $1 bills and assuring the guy behind the counter he was obviously mistaken when he tried to return them to me gets you past the background check bullshit. Well, maybe it's not so good. A lot of the fuckfaces that I have to kill probably get their guns the same way. Regardless, it was mission accomplished. I went and found Emily. And, yes, bought her the leather jacket she was standing there practically drooling over.

We dropped most of the stuff off at the hotel and then I told her I thought it would be nice to take a long ride. She looked a bit apprehensive but either she trusted me at this point or she just felt like she was in my debt because she didn't argue too strongly. I sealed the deal by pointing out that it would be a good opportunity to break in her jacket. We climbed on my bike and I guided us off to find someplace deserted. The more desolate things looked, the tighter she held onto me. By the end, she was about squeezing the breath out of me and I was almost giggling at how happy I knew she was going to be when she got her gift. Finally, I found a good place and parked the bike. We climbed off and I led her over near an abandoned building that would shade us from the worst of the hot sun.

"Umm, Mindy?" Her voice kind of quivered. "What are we doing out here?"

I smiled. "I've got something for you." I reached behind my back under my jacket and pulled out the small Sig 290 pistol that I'd picked out for her. "Surprise!" I crowed and held it out to her with a flourish. Her reaction was not what I'd been expecting. She screamed. And then ran. And then tripped, fell, and started slowly crawling away. I just kind of stared and tried to figure out what the fuck her problem was. Then I tried looking behind me in case there was someone there or something. There was nothing around that should have frightened her. Not even a rat.

"Emily?" I said softly. She just kept flailing on the ground. "Emily!" I said a bit more forcefully. Son of a bitch. I was not emotionally equipped to deal with little girl panic so I snapped. "Cut that the fuck out!" When she looked up at me and I had her attention, I took a deep breath. Then I tried to hide my irritation and look reassuring. Obviously I failed because her expression didn't change even a bit. I tried again. "It's a present!" Ah her blank look, I continued. "I thought maybe you could use a bit of defense in your line of, umm, work? Job? Profession? Shit. Yeah, let's go with profession. And, hey, look! The grip is pink!" I really expected excitement at that point and I still didn't get shit. Her face clearly showed that not much of what I was saying was making it through to her brain. "I bought bullets too." I said, hoping that maybe that was why she was so upset. She still didn't blink. Jesus. How much of a ninny was this chick?

"Ahh shit." I sighed. I walked over and sat down next to her. She tried to move away but I grabbed her ankle so she didn't manage to do more than wiggle around in the dirt.

"Who am I?" I asked her.

"Hi…Hi…. Hit Girl." She stammered.

"And what am I?" I continued.

She looked at me with confusion. "A vigilante?"

"Technically, correct. I prefer superhero, but let's not split hairs." Considering her obvious mood, I couldn't resist adding. "And we won't split anything else, either. OK. I'm one of the good guys. Good girls. Shit, you know what I mean. Do heroes shoot their friends?"

"Sometimes?" She managed. I gave her the stare of death. Then she began to laugh.

"Sorry about that. I was actually a bit startled at first but your reaction to it was too much fun not to play with. You couldn't even say the word 'hooker'. I mean seriously…. Job? Profession? Shit. Does that mean I get a retirement plan?" She managed to say past the giggles. Eventually she calmed down. "Sorry. I guess life hasn't really prepared me to expect presents so I'm not that good at receiving them. But, thank you." She held out her hand. I gave her the gun and just as I'd expected, she immediately pointed it at a nearby rock and pulled the trigger. It just clicked. She looked back at me disappointed. "Did I do it wrong? Is it broken?"

"No, stupid." I started to laugh too. "I haven't put any bullets in it yet. Plus, don't shoot at rocks. The bullet might ricochet." At her blank look, I explained. "Ricochet is when a bullet bounces off of something hard and might hit something else. Like you."

Shut up. The whole 'shot myself in the head thing hadn't happened yet, alright? Kind of prophetic though….

She looked at me with supreme puppy dog eyes. Then she held out her hand and said in a cute little baby voice. "Gimme bullets!"

It didn't take her long to get used to the kick and she had a tremendous time screaming "Bang!" or "Eat lead!" or "Die you motherfucker!" every single time she that took a shot. Her aim wasn't bad for a beginner and she took pretty well to the idea that until she really got some practice in, she should just imagine pointing her finger to aim.

I laughed until my sides hurt. I think that I needed that even more than I had the company the other night. It did a lot to dispel the last of the depressive funk I'd developed when I left the city. Maybe I didn't have Dave for now and maybe I couldn't go out and kick criminal butt without sending up a signal flare showing where I'd gone. But I had a friend.

We went out for Tai food afterwards and then went back to the room. After we'd collapsed into chairs, she looked over at me. "We need a bigger place. Better. Not so skeezy.

I nodded. "I tried, but I pretty much need to pay cash for everything if I don't want to get caught. And no place decent will accept that. Plus, really good places need references and I don't have any. Pretty much everyone I've ever worked with is dead or has a secret identity." I laughed. "I suppose the ghost of the Mother Russia could come back and tell them I did a good job killing her." I switched to a crappy Russian accent. "Hit Girl is good worker. Never give up. Is very sharp and precise. Needs to control her language though." We both giggled.

Emily chimed in. "Well, my customers aren't dead, but I don't think their testimonials would get us a good place either. At least, not one we'd want." Her voice went all low and manly. "Amazing girl, great blowjobs! 'Needs bigger tits but isn't afraid to use what she's got.'" We both lost it at that point and didn't manage to stop laughing until the person in the next room started banging on the wall. I just banged right back. This wasn't the kind of place where you wanted to be intimidating. Kind of like acting like a pussy in a prison yard. It was like begging to get shivved. We resolved to work on it tomorrow and decided to get some sleep.

I nosed around a few shady businesses while Emily made the rounds of her 'friends'. There were a couple of warehouse spaces where we could easily rent a few thousand square feet. That sounded ideal until I worked through all of the details. None of them were all that secure. Plus, they didn't have much in the way of bathroom facilities and I wasn't all that excited about the idea of peeing in a bucket. We were about to give up and accept living in a shitty motel room until Emily found Jordan.

Jordan was apparently some sort of do-gooder minister and had a good reputation on the street. He'd help girls like Emily find a nicer place to live and then help them get out of 'hooking'. Eventually, he'd even find them jobs in a new place where no one knew about their past. He showed Em postcards from some of the girls he'd guided into a new life. And even though he was all religious and shit, he didn't judge or condemn the girls for their actions. As far as he was concerned, it wasn't their fault that life had let them down. "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone" was his motto. "And all of us have sinned."

He wouldn't help just anyone though so we were going to have to put some work into this. He was rather particular and you kind of had to interview with him. He said it was because he didn't want to use his limited resources on girls who weren't ready to change their lives. And he wanted to meet both of us so I would have to dress the part when we went to see him. We went back to the store and this time I bought the 'fuck me' pumps that I'd tried on last time. That and a tiny micro dress that barely covered my ass. It all looked too pretty though, so we went on YouTube and found a bunch of videos on how to 'age' costumes. We knew we needed to look pretty down and out for him to give us a shot. We ripped the hem a bit, put a couple of artful snags in my stockings, and added some 'suspicious' looking stains. Emily offered to find a guy to jack off on the dress so the stains would be real, but there was no way in hell I was going to wear something that some guy has spewed on. Emily already had appropriate clothing that was far more authentic than I was willing to think about so she was set We rounded out the look with some fake bruises done up with makeup. Emily normally had the real thing there too, but she'd been with me long enough that they'd all faded. We were ready to meet him.

Turned out all of our work was pretty much a waste of time. He didn't even glance at our clothes. I caught him checking out Emily's tits a few times, but, hey, minister or not, he was still a guy. I was a little disappointed that he didn't check out mine, but I'd declined to stuff my bra and I really didn't have all that much going on in the boob department.

That's kind of stupid, isn't it? Being disappointed in not being ogled? When I normally would be offended at someone staring? But I was. Life is weird that way sometimes.

Anyway, boob examinations aside, we met his criteria and he set us up in a small apartment in a building he managed. Or owned. He was a little vague on that point but I didn't push it because the place was cute and clean.

In hindsight, I probably should have pushed….


	5. Chapter 5

So Emily and I had our own apartment. I had enough money to cover everything even though she still fought tooth and nail when I tried to share. I started to train and get back into fighting shape. At Emily's insistence, I even started doing yoga which I'd previously thought was a waste of time. Tai chi - yes, yoga no. But holy fuck, that girl could bend herself into some weird positions. I mean, I was flexible, but… damn. Each of us had very different reasons to want that level of balance and mobility but we tried not to talk about it too much. It was… awkward. But we did laugh a lot at each other when a position went wrong. We'd either topple over or have our yoga pants try to go places that pants never should go.

I needed to build up my stamina though so I started jogging. I decided do it at night to combine exercise and profit. I was even attacked by fuckwads with money every couple of days so I didn't have to dig too far into my savings. I really enjoyed that because it added a little spice to the workout. Emily thought I was insane. I offered to have her go with me on numerous occasions, she never accepted. Sometimes I didn't understand that girl.

At first I thought I was building a new kind of life but I eventually realized it wasn't that different than high school had been. I wasn't going anywhere; I was just coasting along. It was a bit better because I actually got to kick the shit out of people from time to time. That had been missing when Marcus had still been in the picture. But I didn't have a goal or a mission. There was nothing to bring any meaning to what I was doing. Emily was a lot of fun but she didn't understand who I was any more than Marcus had. She was a friend. Just a friend. Not a best friend. Not a soul mate.

Holy fuck I missed Dave.

Money continued to be an issue between Emily and me. She wanted to support herself and it had started to get really nasty when finally she found a job. Jordan, the building manager/owner/prostitute redeemer decided that he needed someone to work afternoons answering the phone, typing letters, and that kind of shit. He offered it to Emily and she jumped at it. Soon we really weren't seeing that much of one another. She had work during the day when I mostly slept and she was out like a light long before I got back from my midnight jogs. We still managed to exercise together but that was about it.

In hindsight, I probably should have realized the importance of the changes that went on over the next week. In my defense, I have to admit that I was thinking more and more about how much I missed being with Dave and letting everything else pass me by. I didn't have the slightest clue what was really going on in my world. It started simple. One afternoon, I woke up to find that Emily had completely re-arranged the living room. The TV faced a different wall and oddly, she'd put a lot more lights in there. The next day, there was also a water leak in the bathroom that eventually Jordan had to come up and fix. I'd think that I had it all taken care of and then I'd go back in there to pee and find a puddle on the floor again. It took Jordan all afternoon to get it taken care of and even though I tried to beg off, Emily was insistent that she and I go out while he worked. He'd given her the day off and she said she wanted to pay me back for all the times I'd treated her. I tried to argue that a person should get to pick their own reward and that I wanted to sleep, but she grabbed my arm and pulled me out the door. Sure I could have stopped her, but not without making a scene. So, we went window shopping, then got dinner. I put my foot down when she tried to add a movie to the evening. I told her it wasn't a fucking date and that I wanted to get home. She grumpily accepted and spent all of the ride home texting. That's pretty challenging while riding on the back of a motorcycle. I tried to ask her who she was texting and she just ignored me.

Then the actual weird shit started. She got mad if I hung a towel on the wrong hook in the bathroom when I took a shower and I wasn't allowed to get the bathroom too steamy. "It'll cause mildew" was all she'd say. But, I'd watched enough sitcoms to know that as roommates, you kind of have to accept each others strange shit. It got worse. I got a great Jet Li poster in a really classy frame and hung it up one night. She flipped out. "You can't hang it there!" she wailed for over an hour until I finally gave in and moved it to another wall. When she calmed down, she said tried to claim that it was some sort of Feng shui bullcrap. I didn't buy it so I did a little research. And where she wanted to put it wasn't 'Feng shui' at all. It would block all the chi energy in the room or some horseshit. So, I called her on it and she went ballistic. She turned it around on me claiming that I thought I was so superior to her. "When the fuck did you become a Feng shui expert, huh?" she screamed. "From one fucking website?" I decided to give in to keep the peace but really, it was a weird thing for her to get that obsessed over.

It was getting warmer in the building as we moved toward summer. So, I got to discover another cute quirk about my roommate. Emily absolutely hated running the AC. She'd always say it was just us girls so we might as well save some money and just wear less clothes. Which was a weird ass reason not to run it. And 'ass' is really the right word because, thanks to her 'no air conditioning, clothing optional policy', I saw a lot of hers. I mean, she was doing yoga in not much more than a thong. And since it was so fucking hot, I eventually broke down followed along. It did minimize the laundry. Then one afternoon she went a little too far. She decided that she was too hot to wear the thong and just skinned it down. I stared at her, then did my best to stop staring at her. I might have finally drawn a line in the sand (or should it be a 'crack?) but she was far more confidant with her body than I was. It made me jealous. Eventually peer pressure and a really sweaty pair of yoga pants that were starting to chafe in some not so comfortable places wore me down. I gave in to clothing being bit more optional myself. Not as far as her but I tried to feel confident in the same way that she did. I mean, you're probably about ready to whack it off under the table at all this craziness but it really was just us girls and who really cared?

Plus, and I know this is kind of fucked up, but I got kind of excited at the idea of Dave somehow tracking me down and bursting through the door to find me doing nude yoga. I wasn't quite sure what I wanted to happen after he came in the door. I did know that I wanted to see the look on his face and then…. Well, my mind typically went kind of fuzzy at that point. Maybe that fantasy might have been why I didn't put all of these weird pieces together. That or I really was just that much of an innocent fucking idiot.

Have any of you put this shit together yet? Really? I mean, did I not see it because I was stupid or does it just help to be a perv?

The first 'crack' in the carefully orchestrated plan was literally in the wall. I noticed there were several cracks in the walls of our exercise slash living room. So, I one afternoon I decided to patch them. Emily completely flipped out. I'd thought that she would be thrilled. But instead, she totally lost her shit. Kept going on about how angry Jordan was going to be that I'd changed how quaint and rustic the apartment was. I didn't see how he'd have that much to complain about. I'd matched the wall color pretty well and even offered to paint the place if he wanted. No dice. Emily marched me downstairs and made me apologize to Jordan right on the spot. He tried to look calm on the exterior, but he was obviously seething underneath. And I got this strange kind of 'pervey' vibe off of him. Suddenly I was happen he hadn't stared at my boobs. After he went on and on for about half an hour, I offered chip the shit back out if that would make everyone fucking happy. He kind of froze at that, calmed down, and said to leave it alone. He'd restore the 'rustic charm' himself. And he made me promise not to make any more changes to the place without his express permission. After a bit of consideration, I decided that this was not the time to tell him about the secret door I'd built into the back of the hall closet to hide my gear.

The next 'crack' was in the toilet. Like literally a crack in the base of the toilet. I mean, I've broken a few of them by throwing guys into them but it was always the top that shattered. The bottom would still be solidly attached to the floor. I couldn't imagine how this could even happen without, say, taking a hammer to the thing. Emily just picked up the phone and a few minutes later, in came Jordan to take care of the repairs. Emily dragged me out of the place while he worked again. This time I controlled where we went and I decided we were going to go to the laundromat. The weird vibes were getting stronger and I had this weird image of Jordan smelling my underwear or something. I took all of it with me to wash, even the clean stuff. And when we got back, not only was the leak was fixed but the 'artful' wall cracks were back. Emily went on and on about how they made the place look rustic. Look, I kind of get the idea behind looking 'rustic' but there's a fine line between that and just looking like shit. I just didn't get it but what the fuck did I know about decorating? Tired, I just agreed with her to shut her up. But inside, I knew that this living situation wasn't going to last much longer.

I decided to go for another late night run. Hopefully I could clear my head and then, calmly, sit down with Emily to discuss the future. Maybe if we started over somewhere else or if we got separate places we could still be friends. And if we couldn't, well, at least I could finally try to sleep without feeling like I was trapped in a sauna. I got lucky and pounding a couple of drug dealers into the concrete helped me to calm down. I felt like I could go back to the apartment and talk about this rationally. In fact, I felt so good about it that I cut short my run and headed back early. It was time to discuss the situation head on.

When I got home, I slipped in quietly more because it was a habit then because I was trying not to be noticed. I peeked around the corner and saw the strangest thing I'd ever seen. Emily was sitting on the couch. Naked. With her legs spread. Touching herself. Embarrassed, I decided to slip back out of the room until she, umm, finished or something. I was so focused on not looking at her that it took a moment to realize that she was talking all sexy like. Things like "You want to see me? Huh? All of me? Do you want to taste me?" I couldn't believe it. But it was odd enough to cut through my feelings of shame. Who in the fuck was she talking to? I hadn't seen anyone else in the room. I peeked back into the room and noticed that she was talking to the wall. She was looking directly at the wall opposite her and asking it if it wanted to fuck her. And while I didn't know dick about sex, I was pretty damn sure that walls didn't make great lovers. I mean, it had been staring at my ass for weeks while I did yoga with her. I was about to laugh at the thought when the weirdness actually went up a notch. She wasn't talking to the wall. She was talking to one of the cracks in the wall. All of her attention was directed at one of those artful fucking cracks. I stared at it, incredulous. Then, I heard a tiny whirring noise and saw the glint of glass through the crack.

HOLY FUCK! THERE WAS A FUCKING CAMERA IN THE FUCKING WALL!

She was being recorded. And I couldn't decide in the moment whether it was better or worse that she knew it was happening. Then the moment got a whole lot bigger. How long had that camera been there? Were there more? Was that the reason that Emily and Jordan had gotten so upset at me fixing up the apartment? What else had it been recording?

Me?

Then the world went red.


	6. Chapter 6

Wonderful. Absolutely fucking wonderful. I was back in a shitty motel room, draped across the bed like a dead fish. I didn't care this time what the fuck the sheets were stained with. Tears kept rolling down my face and sobs wracked my body. My hands were bloody. Not with someone else's blood as per usual. This time it was my own. After I'd paid the skeezy guy at the front desk for my room, both in advance and declining his 'blow job' 20% discount, I'd dragged my weary body straight into the room. I wasn't even mad about the discount shit. I didn't care, not about that, not about anything. I wandered through the room aimlessly at first and ended up in the bathroom. But as soon as I saw my own reflection in the mirror, I smashed my fists into it until the glass shattered. I couldn't stand the thought of looking at myself. And the physical pain in my hands was easier to deal with than the wrenching pain in my soul. It was a welcome distraction and an anchor on reality that I needed right now. So there I lay, watching my blood soak into the sheets through my tears. I tried not to think about the last six hours. I really, really tried.

Oh, and to add insult to injury, I had cramps. Bad fucking cramps. I only add this fact to address those assholes who like to say 'It could be worse'. Say that to me right now and I'll literally put your balls in a blender.

On frappe. Ever seen Hard Candy?

It had been a crazy few hours. Rage and despair had wiped some of it from my mind, but most of it just sat there and rotted in my soul. Even now, years later, when things get dark, when I don't know how I'm going to make it through the night, some sick part of me will replay what happened that day and push me even deeper into depression. Sometimes I can distract myself. I can look up at the stars from the top of a skyscraper or bury myself in Dave's arms to blot out the world. I can let go of the guilt for a little while. But lying in that hotel room, it was too raw. I couldn't hide from myself as the events played over and over in my mind. I wanted to change something, anything. I wanted to not be me. And every time that I went through the events in my head again, it made me feel worse. Which is exactly how I wanted to feel.

Look, I'm Hit-Girl and proud of it. Extremely fucking proud. I have no problem with killing or maiming the guilty. They get what they deserve. I mean, I've castrated guys, crushed them inside cars, blithely removed their limbs while making a comic quip, and used any number of other gruesome ways to remove the shit of humanity from the gene pool. Heh. Gotta try 'I'm the chlorine, you motherfuckers!' the next time I bust in on some drug gang. They'd never get it but I bet Dave would about piss himself laughing. But being Hit-Girl was always on my terms. I didn't let it consume me. I stayed in control. I know that when you watch me that it doesn't always look like I'm in control, but I am. Even when I fought D'Amico or Mother Russia and I was certain that I was going to die, I was still me. Tonight that had changed. I'd become one of the monsters in the dark and I didn't have the slightest fucking clue how to handle it.

I'd come back to the apartment to discover that the pervert landlord had been spying on Emily and I ever since we moved in. Well, technically the spying part was only on me. Emily knew all about it because I'd found her playing with her pussy right in front of a camera and talking all sexy to it. Which is really not what you want to see when you'd been trying to remember if you had DVR'd Reservoir Dogs when you walked through the door. So at first, I just stood there and tried to understand what the fuck she was doing. And then, when I put the pieces together, recognized that there must be someone watching on the other side of that camera, I still just stood there for a few more minutes. I know I said my vision pretty much went straight to red but as I think about it some more, I realize that things didn't quite go down that quickly. I was still trying to figure out what in the fuck she was doing. Because it didn't make a bit of sense. I had plenty of money and I hadn't been shy about sharing it. There wasn't any need to do this unless, maybe she got off on it or something? But, why was the camera all concealed? She could have just used the webcam on my laptop of something.

Shit. I'm suddenly hating the word 'laptop.'

So, the only reason that the camera should be hidden was if it was being hidden from me. And that meant it could have been watching me anytime I was in that room. Like when I did my workouts or any number of extreme stretches. Movements that, while effective, didn't leave any part of my privates to the imagination. Some part of me automatically assumed that there were more cameras hidden around the apartment and eventually I found out that I was right. There was one in my room focused on where I changed clothes. There was another one in the handle of the shower and would have been focused right at my pussy when I was showering. That actually made me feel dirty in a way I can't even describe. And the last one was actually inside the toilet. Like, peeking out from under the rim. I didn't even want to think about what kind of fuck wad wanted to watch me take a piss. I'd never felt this violated in my entire life. I wasn't even certain if I'd have rather been raped then betrayed like this. Maybe I shouldn't talk because I've helped some women after an assault and they were pretty messed up. Even now I'm not sure. But just like a rape, this was made even worse because it involved someone I trusted.

Like I said, when I'd first seen the first camera, Emily had been sitting on the couch giving a little show. Which meant that she had known it was there and hadn't told me. In fact, she'd flat out encouraged me to basically flaunt myself at that little fucking lens. Every time she'd said 'let's work out' and 'we'll do it in the living room, there's more space', she'd been setting me up to get my ass stared at. My ass and my….

Fuck. Let's just stop at 'ass', alright? I know they'd have seen more shit but… Well, let's just stop there.

Anyway, every time that she said 'it's hot – just take your clothes off' was another link in the chain of betrayal. And in just a few moments standing there, I assembled a pretty long fucking chain in my mind. Finally, it so overwhelmed me that I actually growled out loud. That was what broke the moment. It caught Emily's attention and her head snapped sideways to look at me. First surprise filled her face. And then terror. She shoved herself backward, somehow trying to get farther into the couch. I started to scream at her. "Why?" I wailed. "Why in the fuck would you do this? Aren't you my friend? Haven't I been taking good enough care of you? Supporting you?" Her eyes were almost all pupil as I crossed the room and crouched down in front of her. At that moment, I still thought there had to be some sort of reason. An explanation. She couldn't be responsible for something so horrid. Maybe that bastard landlord had forced her or some old john was blackmailing her. I shoved her legs together and used my jacket to cover her nakedness. That was my job, to take care of the victims. "What does he have on you?" I begged because I didn't want her betrayal to be real. "You know you can trust me! You know I'll kill him as soon as you ask!" I pleaded with her to explain. But her eyes just stared back at them and somehow, the fear actually increased. And then she did the worst possible thing that she could have done. She didn't talk. She didn't explain. She didn't cry or collapse. She reached into between the cushions next to her and pulled out the gun I'd bought her. And pointed it at my head.

That's when I actually saw red. That's when I knew this must have been her fault. I like to pretend that I didn't decide what to do next. That it was just my reflexes taking over. But either way, within less than a second, the gun was spinning across the floor. It was spinning the same direction as I'd spun her neck. Both of them made a kind of a sick crunching noise. The gun when it hit the wall and her neck when I felt the bones snap in my hands.

Most of the time, I manage to forget the next part. But not that night. Lying in that hotel room staring at my bloody hands, I relived every single moment. The feel of my hands burning where they had scraped against her skin. The wobbly feeling of her neck after it broke. The smell, a strange mix of musk from her sex and filth from when death released all the fluids in her body. The way the light had just faded out of her eyes as she died. Her eyes only reflected the lamp across the room now. Eyes that right before her death had held a certainty I was going to kill her. No. Right before her murder. I'd killed her and I'd enjoyed it.

Hey guys? Please don't tell Dave about this. There are some things about my past, some secrets that I don't ever want to burden him with. Maybe someday. But not right now. The shame is still too strong.

Anyway, that fuckhead Jordan must have been watching Emily finger fuck herself live because the next thing I knew a baseball bat had smacked into my head and flung me across the room. My head hit the wall pretty hard but I still came up swinging. This time I didn't go for lethal. The first kill had been too fast. I hadn't gotten a chance to really savor it. There was a thirst in me for torment so strong that I actually understood vampire fiction for a little bit. So I knocked him down repeatedly until he couldn't get back up on his own and then I tied him to a chair. I was ready to take my time. I even cut his clothes off to try to reduce him to the same level of shame that I felt at their betrayal. It didn't make that much of an impact on him though. In fact, the fucker started to get a hard on. It got even worse when he looked over at Emily's body. He was actually getting more aroused looking at her naked corpse. I solved that problem by pinning one of his testicles to the chair with a knife. That took the wind out of his sails, so to speak. When he tried to scream, I shoved a piece of his shirt into his mouth. He moved and thrashed. He was trapped somewhere between trying to scream in rage or in pain. But the gag took care of the noise so I left him there while I collected a few more knives. Then I sat down in front of him and waited until he got himself back under control.

I started in on the questions then. I was already pretty sure about what had been going on but it seemed like fun to make him admit it. He only tried to deny involvement in the whole thing once. The loss of one of his fingers convinced him that tact was a no go. Over the next hour, I slowly forced him to admit everything that had been going on. He said that Emily had contacted him shortly after she and I had met. She wanted to pay him back for some favor and said had a cute little chit with a great ass that she was sure would be great on the net. She figured that if she and I moved into one of his apartments, there would be plenty of opportunities to show both of us naked. She even offered to try to seduce me where the cameras could watch. He went on and on about Emily trying to get me naked but kept claiming that he'd never turned the cameras on me. He said while he had no problems filming the willing, he hadn't felt right about doing that to a stranger.

It almost took another finger before he admitted how much bullshit that was. He admitted that while most of the videos of were of Emily, since she'd make sure she stayed in front of a camera to give a good show, there were also a couple of videos of me in the bathroom posted on various sites. He repeated over and over that nothing he had put up showed my face. As if somehow that made it okay to post them. And he went on and on about how amused Emily had been every time a video had gone up. "She'd not doing anything else with that hot little cunt." He claimed she'd say. "Somebody might was well enjoy it!"

I couldn't believe it. The lying whore had sold me out to this cocksucker for a few bucks and a lousy place to stay. Or, maybe she was the cocksucker… Never mind. I wasn't that surprised at his part in things. Angry but not surprised. Male depravity was pretty much business as usual for me. And I knew that all of his 'It was her idea' was probably crap. But I'd dealt with shit like him for years. I expected a guy to be that fucked up. The fact that a woman, more than that, a friend had set me up just made my blood burn. The cunt that I'd poured my heart out to had decided that somehow the world needed to see my junk. In all its glory. The poor stupid bitch that I'd offered a good life to, one where she didn't need to live in the shame that I now felt might as well have raped me. She'd told me I could take my good wishes and shove them up my ass. And I was the dumb bitch who had trusted her. I'd told her my secrets, who I was, about my confused feelings about Dave. Whether it had been her idea or hot, she still made the choice to betray me. I began to get angry that I'd killed her so quickly. She didn't have a dick to hang her off a building by but I'm sure I'd have come up with something appropriate.

Jordan finally passed out for a while. And since I didn't trust him as far as I could throw him – you know, that phrase doesn't work so well when you can throw people off of tall buildings… - I took Jordan's keys and went downstairs to get his computer. I knew there had to be some sort of digital trail to follow. A cursory search of it found that he'd been telling the truth. There were indeed lots of Emily videos posted and only a few of me, none of which showed my face. Thank god that none of the videos in his posted directory could be used to identify me. Well, not unless you knew where every scar and mole on my body.

Gotta be careful about Dave searching the web. He does know every single inch of me….

Well, whether Jordan actually had a tiny amount of decency to avoid my face or, more likely, he just hadn't been lucky enough to catch a good view I didn't know. I deleted everything that I could and hoped any copies would get lost among all the other similar crap on the net and not spend the next thirty years as 'video of the day' on a dozen porn sites.

A few slaps woke him out of the daze he'd drifted into while I was gone. His spirit was broken now and it didn't take any work at all to get him to outline where the rest of the cameras were and where the unused recordings were stored. I dug them out of the walls and then came back to him. He was crying at this point, and apologizing over and over. I looked him directly in the eyes. He stared back for a moment with just a little bit of hope brimming in his soul. Then he saw my eyes harden and started to beg. He wasn't ready to die. It was all Emily's fault. She had led him into temptation. He would make it up to me somehow. He'd give me all the money that he'd made. The desperation almost made me laugh. But I felt the pain of betrayal again every time he mentioned Emily so I shoved the rag back into his mouth.

I took a few minutes to hook the video equipment back up. I wanted to make sure there weren't any surprises left on them before I killed him and torched the building. It started with what I expected. Shots of Emily playing with herself. Shots of my ass, with and without panties. An extremely zoomed in video of me shaving in the shower. Somehow that one was almost funny. Maybe it was that fucking 'laugh or cry' reflex they talk about but the idea of someone paying $20 a month to watch me shave my legs was just absurd. It wasn't sexy. It was, well, boring. Maybe if I'd been shaving my snatch or something but seriously, it was just my legs. I was just about to just smash the drives and move onto t the creative way I was going to make him die when a folder with videos from his office caught my eye. He had it bugged too. The time and date of the first one showed that it was just after Emily and I had moved in. Jordan was giving Emily a rundown of all the camera location so she could be sure to expose herself in the right direction. But instead of the manic glee I expected to see on her face, her eyes had fallen a little more each time he went over another location. Finally she spoke up.

"You said that all I had to do to get us the apartment was to do videos of myself. In my room!" She growled at him. "You didn't say anything about recording Mindy."

That was weird, I thought. Jordan's story had been pretty clear that showing me naked was her plan from day one. I kept watching.

"Don't worry about it." He replied smoothly in the video. "I'll only post you. I just want more places to see you."

"I know, but that wasn't the deal we made. I told you I just wanted a place to live so I could pay her back for being so nice to me. I pay my debts, damn it!"

"Debts? Child, if you own anyone, it's me. I've kept you fed when you couldn't find someone to fuck and made sure you didn't have to sleep on the street. But times are tough and I'm not making that much money off this stuff anymore. You want me to be able to be able to keep taking care of you, right?" She nodded and he continued. "And you want to take care of your friend?" More nodding. "And you know how much I love you, right? That it kills me to do this to you but, well, we have to make a living, right?" More bobble. Dear lord, the bitch believed him completely. "You love me too, right?" Emily nodded again, tears streaming down her face now. He continued. "You have given her a good place to live. And your pictures will help pay me back for all I've done for you. I promise I won't save any pictures of her."

"You promise?" She said. "You swear?"

"I do."

"OK. I love you too. And I believe you."

The video ended and I skipped a little further down the list of files and played another one. It started with Jordan pushing even harder on how much this was costing him. "Look, I gave you the chance to take care of your friend. But well, I'm not making enough to cover the cost of the apartment, even with the rent she'd paying. But I've got an idea. How about if you get Mindy to walk around with less on? Get friendly with her. Don't use the AC. Maybe get her to exercise in some yoga pants or panties or some shit? Guys on the net eat that up and, seriously, what will it hurt? She'll never even know. And I won't show her face so it will be completely anonymous. But if I don't make a little more money, I'll have no choice but to find someone else to live there. Someone who loves me enough to do what needs to be done."

"Loves you… Jordan, I can't. Please don't make me. You won't if you really love me." She stared at him for several minutes before she realized he wasn't going to change his mind. "Fine." Emily said. "We'll move out."

I rewound the video to play that part again just in case I'd heard her wrong. I hadn't. She'd finally grown a backbone.

Jordan looked up at the ceiling for a moment as if to calm himself. But then he rose out of his chair, grabbed her, and shoved her against the wall. The camera actually shook he slammed her so hard. "You stupid little cunt. I thought I could play nice but I guess that's over."

"Over? You mean you don't love me anymore?" Her lip trembled.

"Love you? I've never loved you, you stupid whore. I love my wife. And my kids that you're helping to put in private school. But you're just a fucking meal ticket. And you'll do what I say or I'll make sure Mommy and Daddy back home find out what a slut their precious little daughter has turned out to be. I'll send them every picture and every video link."

"But… but… But my dad's dead and my mom…" She tried to say.

Jordan interrupted immediately. "You actually thought I bought your bullshit sob story when I rescued you from that but terminal? Fifteen years old and all you had was a used one way bus ticket, a tiny suitcase, and about seven dollars in change. You weren't the first dumb ass kid I've found that way and you won't be the last. But I do my homework, little miss schoolgirl. I checked you out shortly after I pulled you off that fucking bus. And I found out pretty much what I expected. Your dad isn't dead and there wasn't any funeral after which your mother disowned you. As every kid seems to do, when you left you made up some sob story so people would take care of you. All that really happened was that you panicked after fucking up during your PSAT's and for some dumb fucking reason, decided to run away from home. What? Never got anything less than perfect before? Dumb shit."

He relaxed his grip for a moment, as if remembering that honey would probably work better than more threats. "Look. Mommy and Daddy have been looking for you ever since you left. But they've been looking for their good girl, not some whore. It would break their hearts if they found out what you've been doing, right?"

Emily just nodded through tears.

"So here's what we're going to do. You get me some good stuff on this Mindy bitch and maybe I'll let you go home to them. Is that a deal? I'll give you a bus ticket and enough money to get there. You can make up whatever bullshit story you want to cover where you've been but only if you get me something good. Otherwise, daddy wakes up tomorrow morning to find pictures of his perfect daughter sucking cock on his phone."

I think part of Emily wanted to scream 'You wouldn't do that!' but her eyes said she'd finally figured out the real score. She swallowed and spoke. "My parents… They're really looking for me?"

Jordan sneered. "Yep. But they want the good girl who left, not the slut who blew me for a sandwich. So do what I say and I'll let you go home again. Deal?

Emily stood there for several minutes with the conflicting emotions playing across her face. Then she seemed to come to an answer. "I'll get you some good stuff. Get Mindy to be all sexy and shit. And I'll do whatever else you want. But just for a little while, OK?"

He nodded. "Now come over here and see if you can't make me feel good enough not to beat you black and blue." Then he reached down and began to unbutton his pants. I quickly stopped the video.

What the fuck? Her dad wasn't dead? Her mom wasn't horrible? She'd made up the whole bullshit story because she was ashamed of screwing up on a test? A test that she could even retake if she wanted? How dumb was this chick? Part of me was still angry at being lied to but the rest empathized with someone who didn't want to face her mistakes. Still, the rest of me hung onto the anger. She'd given in. She'd let this fucker record me naked. She knew I was Hit-Girl. All she had to do was tell me. All she would have had to do was trust me and I'd have made him pay for what he did and gotten safely home. She'd made her choices and then, when they'd gone bad, she'd tried to kill me.

There was one last video dated yesterday. My heart was pounding as I hit play.

"You're going to seduce her." Jordan purred. "I want to see you suck Hit-Girl's pussy. I'll even give you a thousand dollars and put you on the next plane home if you can get her to wear her costume while you do her."

I watched as the color drained out of Emily's face on the video.

"Hit-Girl? Who's Hit-Girl? She's not… I mean… what makes you think…?" Emily just stammered.

"Oh don't play stupid now. I've been watching you two for weeks. I've even seen her costume. I know who she is. I know everything."

Emily looked back at him. "No fucking way! I won't do it! I'll…. I'll… I'll tell her. I'll tell Mindy what you've been forcing me to do. You're right, she is Hit-Girl! And she'll kill you if you don't leave us alone."

"Kill me? Honey, if she's going to kill anyone, it's going to be you. You're the one who got her into all of this." His voice was like honey. Evil fucking honey.

"But I didn't mean too…. I just wanted to give her a place to live; to pay her back for everything she'd done for me…. And she's my friend. She'll…"

Jordan laughed. "She'll understand? Is that what you were going to say? You don't really believe that, do you? Have you ever heard anything about Hit-Girl being 'understanding'? Trust me bitch. If she ever finds out what you've done, your only choice will be to kill her before she kills you. Keep that cute little gun she gave you nice and close because that bitch is psychotic."

Emily looked down at her feet, then back at him. And despite everything I could wish, I knew that Emily had believed Jordan. She'd believed in his lies instead of in my friendship. She'd believed in the hype instead of in me. She was completely convinced that if I found out, I'd kill her. And that that's why, when I'd knelt before her and given her a chance to explain, she'd just grabbed the gun. She knew it was her or me. And the worst part? He'd been right.

I'd killed my friend. I hadn't questioned her fear. I hadn't taken the gun away from her and found out what was really going on. I'd reached out and simply snapped her neck like a twig.

That beautiful young girl had, despite how much I cared about her, how much I tried to take care of her, had believed deep in her heart that I was a monster. She hadn't trusted me. And she'd been right. I wasn't worth trusting. I was the reason Emily was dead. We could have been dancing on Jordan's corpse right now but instead he was still alive and she was gone.

It was my fault that she'd never get to reconcile with her mom and dad. It was my fault that they'd never get some sort of closure. They'd spend the rest of their lives looking outside the porch windows at night hoping their sweet girl would appear from the darkness. They'd always wonder what they did to drive her away.

I hadn't destroyed one life. No, Hit-Girl never goes halfway. I'd destroyed three.

A deep sob brought me out of my reverie for a second. When you do what I do, it's very dangerous to look inside your soul. There's no way that you can make the right call every single time. Sooner or later you're going to make a mistake. But lying on that hotel mattress with the blood finally starting to clot around my fingers, I couldn't stop looking. I wasn't a superhero. I wasn't even a vigilante. I was a murderer. I was as bad as the people I fought. I was responsible for so much pain in the world. More than I could even imagine. And it had started so long ago. I could have convinced Daddy not to waste his life pursuing vengance. I had him wrapped around my finder and if I'd really tried to change him, he'd have stopped. I could have at least asked for the puppy instead of a balisong. If I had, Daddy would still be alive. Dave's dad would still be alive too because no one would have dragged Dave into killing D'Amico. The Colonel would be alive, passing out blankets to the homeless or taking care of Eisenhower. There wouldn't have been any need for revenge. My grief took over again.

I was trapped in my memories again. Back in the apartment. There were no more videos to watch. I'd just lived what had happened after. I looked over at Emily's body and the tears began to just steam down my face. I walked back over to Jordan. He'd been quiet while I watched the videos of his office. He knew what they contained. His eyes were wide. I looked at the knife in my hands for a moment and then everything inside me shattered. I began to stab him over and over. But the strikes weren't aimed. I even missed him a few times and I was right on top of him. His blood spurted across the room painting odd patterns on the walls. I didn't know if I was screaming or crying or silent as a tomb. In my mind, it wasn't Jordan whose blood was painting the room. It wasn't Jordan who felt every thrust strike home. It wasn't Jordan who died on the blade of my knife.

It was me. Because I was the one who deserved to die.


	7. Chapter 7

"It's impossible to worry about anything else when there is blood coming out of you." That's a quote from a movie I saw recently and normally, it's totally true. But not so much at the moment. Instead, I hated. No, that last sentence isn't messed up. 'I hated' was a perfect summary of how I felt lying on that dirty mattress. There wasn't one specific thing that I hated. I hated every single possible thing. I hated the world. I hated all of the bad people in the world that made my job even possible. I hated Daddy for leaving me all alone. I hated Marcus for not finding a way to make my life work. I hated my Ducati because you can't ride a motorcycle while you're sobbing and that's all I could do. I hated Emily for not trusting me enough to tell me what was going on. More than that, I hated her for making me kill her.

I even hated Dave because I knew he'd never have killed a friend. He hadn't even fucking killed Todd and that cocksucker had basically got Dave's dad killed. I hated him because he was the only person I wanted to talk to and I couldn't call him. Not because he wouldn't pick up, because he'd definitely answer the phone. Not because he wouldn't have been understanding and comforted me, because he totally would have done all of that. Not because he wouldn't have dropped everything to come and take care of me. Take me home. Make me soup. Tell me he loves me. Maybe even kiss me?

I hated Dave because he would do every single one of those things, except maybe the love/kiss shit, and I didn't deserve a single fucking one of them. Especially not the fucking kiss.

I don't love me, so no one else gets to fucking love me, GOT IT?!

Eventually the tears stopped. I didn't feel any better but there is a limit to how long you can cry. I tried to wipe my eyes and it hurt like a motherfucker. Salt in the wounds basically. So I got up and stumbled back to the bathroom where I promptly cut my foot open on one of the pieces of glass I'd broken out of the mirror with my fists.

Do you want to know how bad I was feeling? It's pretty simple. I didn't bother to swear. Or scream. I just accepted as something I deserved and pulled the disinfectant out of the first aid kit I always carried. That hurt too when I poured it over my hands and my foot but, again, I just suffered in silence. I managed to get my foot bandaged up OK but then I discovered another downside of being all alone.

It's pretty much impossible to bandage up your own hands. Well, at least to do so in any way that the wrappings wouldn't fall off as soon I turned around. Even if I could have done it, some of those cuts were going to require stitches. So I grabbed my shit and headed out into the night.

In retrospect, I probably should have cleaned the blood off of my face. Not that I was injured there but I'd been rubbing my eyes a lot and, well, you get the picture. In my defense, I will remind you that the mirror was broken so how in the hell was I supposed to know how hideous I looked? I wandered the streets and, of all places, managed to end up at a battered women's shelter. You'd expect them to freak when they saw me but apparently the women they usually see look worse off than I did. A very nice woman cleaned me up and then a doctor that they had on call came in and sewed up the worst of the slashes in my fingers. Throughout the entire procedure, I didn't speak. Not one word. They asked who had done this to me and, as much as I tried, I couldn't look them in the eye. I'd done this to me but there was no way I could admit that. That convinced them that some guy had done it so they didn't push the question too hard. Again I figure that it's pretty typical for the women they see. They asked if I wanted to report anything to the police and I just shook my head. Then they talked a lot about things not being my fault and about how the only way out of my situation was to let them help me. Every word made me feel worse. Which was pretty much what I wanted so I just kept listening.

Every single one of their assumptions about me was wrong. That's what made it the perfect poison to listen to. There wasn't anybody else. I was my own attacker. No one had done this to me; it was entirely my own fault. I could have stopped all of this and I didn't. They talked about how it was OK to be weak, that everyone is sometimes and even with my bandaged hands, I still could have killed every single person in that building. And the cops who responded if someone had managed to call 911 before I got to them. Their standard spiel designed to help a woman who had been abused was a joyous kick to my gut reminding me of everything that I'd done wrong. I still hadn't spoken through all of this. Finally, when it looked like they were going to call the police or put me in in a nuthouse or something, I got ahold of myself enough to make them understand that I just wanted to be left alone. They made me give them a name first. Just a first name, but I had to give them one. So I did.

I said I was Emily.

And from then on, that's who I was. I'm not sure why. Maybe at first it was a way to hold onto her. I gave them the bullshit story about her Dad dying and the funeral and ending up on her own. Not the real PSAT story because, just like Emily, there was no way I was going to admit I'd been that stupid. I told them about being a hooker on the streets, blending together what Emily had told me with all the hellish things I'd seen as Hit-Girl. That prompted them to take a sample of my blood and check for STD's. I was going to fight them on it but then figured, why?

I was clean by the way. Seriously dumb ass, I'm a fucking virgin so what the hell did you expect? OK, I suppose I've been around enough of other people's blood that something like hepatitis was certainly a small possibility but I'd always been as careful as I could be. So I was fine. Clean bill of health. Well, clean assuming you disregarded the injured hands, injured foot, and whatever mental fuck had caused me to decide to keep being Emily. Because as the night went on, my desire to somehow keep Emily's memory alive transformed into a partial delusion. I answered to it. I became her. And then they asked me one more time who had done all of this to me. And looked at them clearly and answered.

"Mindy. Mindy did this to me. And I don't ever want to see that bitch again."

I hadn't quite cracked enough to give them a last name so they couldn't file a police report. And apparently lesbians beat the shit out their significant others too because it didn't faze them in slightest that I'd given a female name.

You know, that's pretty sad. You'd hope that in a relationship with two females, neither one would abuse the other. But human nature is human nature regardless of gender so there always were going to be those bad apples out there. I guess that it's really just fucking sad that it happens to anyone, regardless of gender or orientation.

They let me get some sleep. When I woke up in the morning, my consciousness kind of hovered between being Emily and being Mindy. But being Mindy meant going back to the pain and the self-hate. So I chose to be Emily again. An overly happy volunteer got me out of bed and helped me eat breakfast since my hands weren't all that functional with all the bandages. From there we went to support group. I wasn't really asked, it was just assumed that I'd go and I certainly wasn't in a mood to fight anyone. I didn't talk during that first session. There was another one that afternoon and I started to tell the group part of my story. Well, technically Emilie's story but like I said, I'd decided that I was Emily. They told me about how brave I'd been to decide to finally get help and somehow that made me feel better. So the next day, I told them a little bit more. And got more affirmations. It was like a fucking drug and I could have spent the rest of my life living in that little pool of safety. But after a few days, two things got in the way. The first one was that I hadn't completely gone round the bend. I did actually know that I was Mindy. I didn't want to know it but I did. But while I could have lived with that, the second problem wasn't so easily overcome. Because as I listened to the others tell story after story of the hell that they'd been through and how they'd escaped it, I realized that I wanted to tell them my story. Not Emily's story, but Mindy's. Part of me thought that confessing it might help me find a little bit of the peace that these women had found. Maybe if I came clean I could go back to being Hit-Girl.

And I couldn't. I was trapped. I'd woven such a web of lies that there wasn't room for me to fit in even a little bit of how I'd grown up. I couldn't tell them about Big Daddy because I'd already painted a complete picture of Emily's Daddy. And I couldn't tell them about growing up without a mom because they knew what a witch Emily's was. Well, Emily's fake mom, but still….

Once again, I'd done it to myself. I'd created my own little hell. All those little supportive comments that used to light me up like a narcotic now reminded me of what a lying evil bitch I was. These women had gone through the fire and emerged stronger. I'd burned to a crisp. I'd given up. That was when the bad feelings came back. I couldn't hide inside of Emily anymore. My refuge was gone. Late one night, I begged some paper and a pen. I wrote out my entire story. I figured that if I maybe slid it under the door of the center's director and then left before they read it, I'd get the absolution I wanted without having to face their confusion. Or hurt. Or betrayal. I explained everything. I admitted how I'd lied and how weak I'd been. I admitted that I'd accepted their help under false pretenses. I put every little thing on paper.

Then I packed my stuff and went downstairs. I went up to the office door and, just as I was about to slide the papers underneath, it opened. The director stood there caught mid yawn and stretch as she'd opened the door.

"Emily? I see you're packed. Are you leaving us?"

My fingers tightened on the papers and I nodded.

"Are you going back to Mindy?" She asked.

I had to clear my throat before I could speak. "Yes."

"Are you sure that you don't want to report her to the police? She might kill you next time, you know. Or you could stay here longer or we could find you a new place or…" She trailed off when I could no longer meet her gaze. Then she let out a deep sigh. In that sound, I heard every time that she'd said these words and been rejected. I heard every tear she shed when the police came to tell her that another one of the women she'd tried to save had been killed by her abuser. And I heard her deep understanding and grief that the decisions made by those women were not hers to make. I heard her let go of me. Then she noticed the letter that I'd crumpled in my fist. "Did you want to give me that? Before you left I mean?"

I looked back up to her eyes and I couldn't do it. That letter was basically me begging her to absolve me of my sins and I couldn't do it. I couldn't ask this woman for forgiveness. I couldn't ask for something I didn't deserve.

"It's…. It's something from Mindy. And…. I don't want it to even exist anymore. Could we maybe burn it before I go?" I still don't know how I managed to get those words out.

She smiled. "Sure. Maybe it will give you a little bit of peace." And so she took me to the kitchen and we lit each page and then dropped it in the sink to burn. When it was completely gone she ran water to rinse the ashes away. Then she looked at me. "Did that help honey?"

I couldn't lie. Not one more time. "No." I said. "Thank you, though, for trying." Then I picked up my bag and walked out the back door.


	8. Chapter 8

I didn't go and find a shitty motel room this time. I went deeper into the city and snuck up the stairs of the tallest building I could find. Then I went out on the roof to look at the stars. This was an OK place to be alone. I listened to the quieting noises of the late night below me while I changed into my Hit-Girl outfit. It seemed appropriate. Then I found a reasonable comfortable place to sit and just leaned back. After a few minutes, I pulled Emily's little pink handled pistol out of my pocket. I stared at it for a long time, trying to make some sense out of the tragedy.

It was time to count up the lives that I had destroyed. Recently anyway, I wasn't ready to go back to before I'd left New York. Jordan was dead. I didn't feel all that bad about killing him except that his wife and kids probably had no idea how evil he was. They'd probably be broke now and those kids would end up going to public school instead of private. Ultimately, it wasn't my problem. I thought about contacting his wife at least to tell her what had happened. No. Him dying in a fire would be enough of an end to his existence. I'd torched the building when I left after making sure the place was empty. We were apparently his only tenants at the time. The police might eventually figure out that I'd actually stabbed him to death before he burned or find the evidence of all the hidden cameras. If so, his family could deal with the fallout. It sucked but I didn't owe them anything. Plus, in my heart, I didn't want to find out if they'd known about what he was doing and approved of it. It was better to let that go.

On to what actually mattered. Emily was dead at my hands. Nothing was going to change that. Not pretending to be her, not singing her name from the rooftops, nothing. Tears started leaking from my eyes but they were absorbed by my mask before they could roll down my cheeks. That was a use for a mask that I'd never thought of before. Maybe that was one of the reasons superheroes loved them so much. I tossed Emily's pistol back and forth from hand to hand a few times, then made myself set it down. That was, as they say, that.

Just like Jordan, Emily had family and loved ones who would be devastated by what had happened. But these ones were my responsibility. I owed them in the way that Emily had always felt she owed me. It came down to deciding which would be best for them. Either make sure they find out their daughter is dead or let them always wonder what had happened to her. At first, I was really tempted to just let them go on believing she was alive. I mean, they were already doing that so it wouldn't be any sort of change. Their lives would continue as is. But that was where that idea broke down. If they never knew, they would never move on. Not that 'move on' is what you want to do from a dead child but… Well, I think you know what I'm talking about. Today it is easier for them to hope she is alive. Maybe tomorrow too. But how about a thousand tomorrows? Years? An entire life spent hoping that their little girl will come back in that door. A girl who will never age in their minds. And a life where every moment of every day they get to wonder what happened to her. Where they get to blame themselves, blame each other, blame the darkness.

I am the darkness. I took their child. I am the only thing that deserves their blame. Other people abused their daughter. But I killed her. I'm the reason she can't go home.

I dug into my pocket and pulled out a cheesy little phone that I'd found in Jordan's stuff. He had kept tighter controls on the girls he took by taking their phones. Each one even had a neat little label with a name on it. As best I could tell, Emily had been the only one working for him right now though…. I wondered what had happened to the others but it was too late to find out now. It honestly wouldn't surprise me if he'd killed them and dropped them in the river. Anyway, I'd dropped most of the phones in a mailbox with a note for the postal worker to give them to the police. Maybe that would let some other parents out there find out what happened to their kid. But I'd kept the one with the plain little label that said 'Emily.'

I turned it on. Thankfully it had a lot of battery left in it because I hadn't even considered grabbing a charging cord. I scrolled through it. There were happy pictures of a beautiful family. There were pictures of Emily with friends. Some were posed and some were silly selfies. I went through her texts. The oldest ones were with her friends and parents. Lots of LOL's and TTYL's. Teenspeak. Then worried messages with friends talking about how she didn't feel ready to take the PSAT. Her last message sent in every single conversation was 'Goodbye.' She sent it to all of them at the same time, probably right after she'd walked out of the test. Jesus, she wouldn't have even known yet if she'd flunked the thing. Maybe she just blanked and didn't fill out a single bubble. There were tons and tons of messages from everyone she knew asking her what 'goodbye' meant. Messages that started pretty worried and then went hysterical. Her parents sent message after message pleading for her to come home. They told her over and over that they didn't care what had happened, what she'd done. They just wanted her to come home. More messages kept flooding in as I read. They must have been sent after the phone had been turned off and were just waiting to be received. Her parents had kept her phone on, paying for it every month, sending her more sad requests to please come home. That meant that they hadn't given up hope.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

It was time to destroy that hope. It was time to pull the trigger. They needed to know what had happened. They needed a chance to grieve. They needed the chance to say goodbye. I started to type.

"Dear Emily's loved ones. I'm sorry. When you heard this message arrive, it probably made your heart sing with hope and happiness. And I wish to God I had better news for you. I do not. Your daughter is dead. This isn't an easy way to say it so I won't try to find one. She loved you. She loved you all very much. She made some mistakes, she panicked, and she ended up in a life she didn't know how to escape. When I knew her, I didn't know that she had people who loved her so much out there in the world. If I had, I'd have put her on a plane and made her go home to you. I'd have saved her. Because that's what I usually do. I save people. But this time I failed.

There was a man. Jordan. I've already sent all of his information to the police and it's entirely possible that they'll contact you before you've had a chance to read this. But you still deserve this message from me. He'd taken her phone away from her and put her to work on the streets. She never got your messages of love and forgiveness. Instead, he convinced her that he loved her and that she needed to work the streets to take care him. He convinced her that no one else in this world loved her but him.

And then she ran into me. I got her off the street and I gave her a place to live and I tried to lift her out of bad choices she'd made. I gave her money so she didn't have to sell herself to eat. I tried to be her friend. She was happy for a time at least. But she didn't tell me about you all. And she didn't tell me how bad Jordan really was.

I'm not asking for your forgiveness because I don't deserve it. I'm contacting you because I want you to be able to find some sort of closure. To grieve for your child. I don't know that you'll care but I'm be grieving too.

Near the end, she found out that you wanted her to come home. And she did the things she did in the hopes of seeing you again. I wish she'd told me that Jordan had made her do those things. I wish I'd been a good enough friend that she trusted me. I'd have done all of this the right way.

There was a mistake. I thought she was the bastard that Jordan actually was. And I so I killed her thinking I was removing filth from the world. I was horribly wrong. When I found out the truth, I killed Jordan for putting both of us in that mess. But it didn't bring her back.

Please know that your daughter died knowing that you loved her. The police have video from Jordan's surveillance cameras that will let you see that for yourself. So you don't have to believe me. That's what matters here. She died knowing that you'd welcome her home. And I'm so sorry I didn't get her there.

I destroyed one of the two people responsible for her death. Jordan is gone. And now I'm going to destroy the remaining one. Me."

I agonized forever before I hit send. Then I picked back up Emily's pistol and looked at it. No. Too easy. One click and gone. I considered knives but I didn't think I'd manage to just keep sawing at myself until I died. I looked back up at the stars through eyes still blurred by tears. Tears that I didn't even deserve to have. I shoved back the grief because I didn't even deserve to miss her. I stood up and walked to the edge of the building. And without another thought I jumped.

And I fell.

Did you just gasp? Did I make you do that? Go ahead and take minute to recover. I'll wait.

Ready? Good. In case you hadn't done the math, I obviously didn't die. I'm even going to shoot myself in the head (BY ACCIDENT!) in a few weeks and that won't kill me either. I'm telling you about what happened before all that shit started so obviously I have to make it through this. But I did jump. I expected to die. I intended to die.

Unfortunately, or I guess, fortunately, kind of depends on your perspective, I'd paid so little attention to the building that I'd perched on top of that I didn't realize that about 15 feet down from the roof was an office with a balcony. Privileges of the rich I guess. That kind of shit. And I landed smack down flat in the middle of it and knocked myself unconscious. And then, a few hours later, with a bright sun shining on me and fucking birds chirping, I woke up.

And when I say I woke up, I mean I really woke up. I actually knocked some sense into myself. It's actually kind of frightening that I have to get hit in the head to figure shit out.

I looked out at the city which wasn't my city. And I missed home. I missed Marcus. I missed Dave. I wasn't ready to see them yet but I could finally admit to myself that I wanted to go back. I accepted the fact that dying wasn't going to do one fucking thing to make the world a better place. I wasn't exactly sure what would make it better but me splattered across the pavement definitely wasn't it. I didn't hate myself anymore. I didn't exactly love myself either but at least for now, the hate had bled away. It was to a certain degree obscured by the pain from the phenomenal bruise that covered me from head to toe. But I also felt that, with the suicide attempt, I'd killed that part of me that wanted to die. At least for now. I pulled off my mask and threw it into the wind. I wasn't letting go of Hit-Girl but I was letting go of the pain from the tears that still soaked it. And then I went over to the door leading from the balcony into the building, broke it open, and went off to find an absolute fuck ton of Advil.


	9. Chapter 9

I'd found a not too skeezy place to crash and downed about half a bottle of Advil. My entire body hurt like a mother fucker. Not like The Mother Fucker, because he'd been eaten by a shark and wasn't feeling anything now other than maybe being shark shit. I'd considered taking a couple of real pain killers. I had them in my kit but only used them when I otherwise couldn't stand the pain. I mostly avoided them because they made me to groggy and really, too depressed. And depression needed to be avoided at all costs. It was time build a bridge and get the hell over my problems. Preferably the Brooklyn Bridge and get myself the fuck back into New York.

I slept off some of the pain and then got up to take a shower. My entire back was black and blue. I wasn't dead and nothing seemed to be broken, so overall, I still had to put it in the 'Win' column. And I'd be a lovely shade of purple in a day or two. Kidding/not kidding. I still felt like garbage so I basically painted myself in Icy Hot (which worked better than Bengay) and went back to bed.

For the next two days, I basically did a rinse and repeat on that process while occasionally breaking up the monotony by ordering a pizza. I really wanted to just go join a gym and use their steam room / hot tubs but explaining all of the bruises would have been way too much of a pain in the ass. And I had enough pain in my ass, thank you very much.

The depression wasn't gone. It was still there taunting me from the edges. Part of what kept it away was that I'd finally decided I didn't have time to feel that way anymore. I had a life to live and a fuck load of regret wasn't going to get me any closer to where I wanted to be. The other part was that my suicide attempt had left me feeling, well, reborn. I'd intended to die. I'd planned to. I'd made my peace with it. And, well, it hadn't happened. So I decided that maybe the universe was sending me a message. Something like

Universe: "Hey, Hit-Girl? It would be really fucking stupid to kill yourself after all the trouble I just went through to keep you alive."

Me: "What? You made a building that way just so I'd be a dumb ass and fail to jump off it it? Really?"

Universe: "Yes indeed I did. Pretty fucking clever, right?"

Me: "Not really. If you went to that much trouble, would it have fucking killed you to have put a bunch of pillows on that balcony?"

Universe: "Hey, you jumped off of a skyscraper and lived. Quit your bitching!"

And from there, the conversation in my head really started to get silly. I suppose that I probably had a bit of a concussion but mostly, it was a way not to focus on the enormous fuck up that I'd turned my life into. Plus, the TV didn't work and I was really, really bored.

Finally I could move a bit more freely and my black and blue bruises were more purple and green. And then green and yellow as I got more of my strength back. I finally decided that my body didn't look too terrible to go to the gym. I prepared this elaborate story about how I'd been in a car accident and almost died, but saved by this sexy firefighter that I wanted to get in shape to meet and impress and maybe even get jiggy with. Whatever the fuck 'jiggy' was. I wasn't exactly sure. Anyway, I had my identity and story down pat. I even downloaded a random picture of a firefighter off the net, Photoshopped myself into it, and then printed it at the local Walgreen's. Then I headed on into the gym.

Not one fucking person asked me why my skin was five different colors. Not even when I was in the steam room. I was extremely disappointed. Three guys did try to pick me up though. Ask me out I mean, not literally pick me up. I was in a gym so I thought I should clarify. Only one guy tried to actually lift me up but then I 'accidentally' elbowed him in the throat and he put me down nice and gentle like. I spent the rest of the week getting back in shape.

I was mortally tired of being alone. I mean, even while I'd been with Emily, it wasn't the same as home. Home was New York. Pizza. Avoiding that naked cowboy dude in Times Square. Beating up drug dealers in Queens. Jogging in Central Park at 2 AM to see if any of the fishies wanted to bite.

It was smaller, less dramatic things too. I actually missed homework. And being sent to my room by Marcus and then sneaking back out. Working out with Dave. Watching movies with Dave. Reading comics with Dave. Running faster than Dave and laughing when he can't catch me. Taking long walks with Dave. Having midnight talks with Dave. Trying to find another opportunity to kiss Dave without seeming slutty….

I'm getting a little fucking repetitive, aren't I?

Don't get me wrong. Emily's death still haunted me. But I've done a lot of awful things that stare at me when I try to go to sleep in the darkness. I decided to let this become one of them. Heroes in the comics always had stories like that. Next time I would be more careful. Next time I would ask a few questions before doing something permanent. And even though I couldn't make up for what I'd done, I could look out for other girls in the same situation as Emily and make sure that they got to go home. It wasn't forgiveness but it might become atonement.

What I needed now was to go home. I needed life to be back to normal. I probably couldn't live with Marcus anymore but I could at least make things up to him. And I could see Dave again. I could figure out what on earth I really felt about him. Was I just crushing? Was it more? Did he feel the same way or did he still just think I was a kid?

I was ready to back and live inside the fuzzy blanket, so to speak. I packed things up for the last time, tossed all the stuff that was a pain to carry on a bike, and sped off into a glorious sunrise.

And, to go back to the beginning of this story, that was the mindset that got me shot in the fucking head. I'd been ready to be welcomed by Marcus. Marcus was gone. Forever as far as I knew at the time. Which meant that I'd lost the only person I had left as a father figure. And then Dave swept in and even though I'd initially planned on looking for romance, he slid into the father role instead. And that was all because of living alone. It was because of what happened with Jordan and Emily. It was the result of facing the darkness, surviving, but still needing time to heal.

It was because I needed love. Love was the only thing that banished the darkness. It just took a while to figure out what kind of love I was actually looking for.

You know what, I was wrong. Dave needs to hear this story. Even the embarrassing parts. There's still a part of him that hasn't forgiven himself for the hooker we didn't save and the pimp he beat to death. He needs to know that I went through something even more intense and survived it. Technically I didn't survive it on purpose, but , fuck it, I'm still not dead and that's all that really matters in the end.

And I'll even make him a deal. If he promises to NEVER look for those naked pictures of me online, I'll give him a show that he'll never, ever forget.

And if he breaks the promise? Well, then he gets a beating that he might well forget due likelihood of massive head trauma.

That way we both win.


End file.
